


Fidelis

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Aphrodite Ships It, Canon-Typical Birth of Gods and Legends, Immortal/Half-Mortal Relationship, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, Self-Indulgent, The Only AU Where Libra's Parent Figure Isn't Utter Shit, Twelve Labors, there's smut now sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: Lon'qu turned around, and was met with Libra's hands around his throat.
  "If you were a woman, and mortal," he said, his voice soft, low. "You would be dead by now."
  "What will you do, now that you know I am not?" Libra whispered, and his hair swirled around his ears, it is just, it is just.
Libra/Lon'qu, Greek Myth AU. For those whose causes are most just are oft the most punished, but too are they the ones best rewarded with loyalty. Alternatively: Aphrodite is a jealous bitch who lives for drama.





	1. The Birth of Libra (Hephaestus and the Scales)

**Author's Note:**

> incredibly, insanely self-indulgent. technically speaking, a greek myth crossover, though minimal knowledge about the subject is actually necessary. author has only one mythology class, one astronomy class, and ovid's _metamorphoses_ in experience, so if there are major errors in mythos characterization (aside from intentional alterations), please let me know.
> 
> as a result of FE Libra not _actually_ being a greek god, i have chosen a handful of poetic epithets for him: amphora-born, the mediator, conciliatory, peace-loving.
> 
> [Art of the summary scene](https://twitter.com/SORDHAND/status/781212397600202752) commissioned from the most excellent [Kaze!](https://sheepskin.tumblr.com/)

It was said that high above, on Mount Olympus where the gods made their home, tensions and quarrels ran a thousand times hotter, more lethal, than any argument there ever was on earth. The humans below feared their rage for a hundreds, for thousands of years-- the pettiest spats over which goddess was the loveliest could send an entire war into motion, and even further, an idle boast made by a foolish mortal maiden could drown her entire hometown in a flood.

Zeus and Hera's legendary domestic spats, nowadays, ran hotter than they had in thousands of years, and the philandering king of the gods had more affairs than he ever had before. His scorned wife, too, became more spiteful than ever, and she grew more bitter and miserable each day.

The gods would quietly gossip among each other, and take sides in the dispute-- it was no secret that Persephone of the Underworld, whose husband devoted himself to her truly, felt that all husbands should be as monogamous as Hades. And, quite naturally, the playful Aphrodite could see little harm in letting Zeus have his fun... particularly since, with every new-made affair, her strength over the dominion of love increased. Tension ran high, and the terrified mortals cowered as Zeus' thunderstorms rained down upon them, as Hera's rage, at its worst, rendered entire cities infertile.

And so, desperately fearing for their weakened bonds and the mortals who suffered as a result, the goodhearted Hephaestus, blacksmith of the gods, carefully designed a masterpiece unlike any other with the sole aim of ending these arguments. Though his legs were crippled, and each step he took hurt him, steadfast Hephaestus ventured to the home of Lady Themis, judge of the gods, to beg her for just a scrap of her concealing blindfold.

"So you seek, then, to blind the gods to each others' faults?" Lady Themis frowned upon him. "You know this will not solve their problems, and in the end, may merely turn their rage upon _you_."

"I am aware of what consequences it may bring," Hephaestus replied. "But I would rather bear the brunt of their anger or mockery than for all of mortal and immortalkind to suffer so severely from these disagreements. If you think my cause just, then I beg of you to loan me just a snippet from the end of your blindfold."

"Your cause is just, indeed," righteous Themis answered, "But your method of achieving it dubious. Take thee instead the weight-dishes and chains from a set of my scales, for I have many, each imbued with true righteous sight instead of the dust of blindness. I am sure, Hephaestus of the forge, that they will fare better for thee than any scrap of blindfold."

And so, bearing that set of scales, Hephaestus ventured back to his forge. And from the even-weighted dishes, he forged a heart, and molded it a house of clay from the dust of the stars and the bonds of the gods themselves made tangible silver. With strong fingers, impossibly gentle, he carefully pulled the chains of gold to form threads of hair, that his new creation could hear the truth itself whisper in its finely made ear, and and it was thus Hephaestus with his careful hammer forged an amphora, beautiful, bearing the shape of a man.

As steadily as possible, with the firm but kind hand of a father, the forgemaster Hephaestus knelt to fill this vessel with the draught of eternal life, and raise the statue to godhood.

But his wife, the jealous Aphrodite, became enraged that her lame husband had borne a son without her blood, a son whose carefully crafted beauty even exceeded any of her own children. Thus, she bade her lover Ares strike away the head of Hephaestus' statue before he had a chance to give it life, and to ruin his handiwork forever. But Hephaestus' masterpiece had been too securely crafted, and even with his impressive strength, all Ares could manage was a long scratch along the back of the statue's neck.

"Vandal!" Hephaestus cried, deeply upset that his child should be thus marred before even truly born. He chased after Ares, but his lame leg slowed him, and so he limped his way back to the immortal font, only to discover that his vessel had filled while he was away, that his creation had come to life.

"... father?" the vessel questioned, the silver and stardust of his form changing, shifting into immortal flesh. It was already too late to repair the unsightly scratch that Ares' falchion had left upon his neck as a single, discolored scar.

But Hephaestus, whose looks were far from perfect himself, did not reject him for this flaw. And so he called this vessel: "My son," and named him Libra, for the scales from which he had been born.

And Libra, who had sprung into immortality fully grown, bent at his knee, "For what purpose was I born, o divine father?" 

"My son," and Hephaestus, dignified at last, lifted his chin. "You were forged from the bonds of the gods, for they are weakening yet. My will is that you strengthen these bonds, that you end these disputes, and through this, grow strong yourself."

"As you command," and Libra stood, prepared to head off to work immediately.

"Halt," Hephaestus spoke, and Libra stopped in his tracks.

"My apologies. Have I done something wrong?"

"No, no," Hephaestus sighed, and wondered if all newborn gods were like this. "Just... before you leave. Please put on some clothes."


	2. The Wrath of Hera (Zeus et Dulcinea)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> at least Hephaestus is a good dad

As the years progressed, though, so too did Libra, far more quickly than any mortal babe, and by his hundredth year, amphora-born Libra had truly become wise. By then, he had mediated thousands upon thousands of disagreements between the gods, had hosted dozens of couples' therapy sessions, had returned home to his quiet cottage on Mount Olympus only to begin the process again the next day.

(Hades and Persephone's marriage, in this case, was an absolute blessing. Not quite perfect, but Hades at least knew when to back down and let his wife take the wheel-- indeed, the stability it loaned to the bonds between gods made Libra wonder if it had been the delicate linchpin holding this entire mess together before it became Libra's job.) 

At times, he was forced to intercede in the petty squabbles of the nymphs and dryads, who too were divine in their own right-- they argued, frequently, over which of them was most beautiful, and Libra's carefully neutral chide was always along the lines of, "It would be best if you ceased your boasts, lest Our Lady Aphrodite take issue with your claims of beauty." And the nymphs and dryads, who had all heard stories of kin struck down by such claims, usually stopped there.

But sometimes, they pressed on, "No, neither of us has even half of Aphrodite's beauty, but between Nereia and I-- I am the more beautiful!"

And Libra would sigh, and run his fingers through his hair of gold, and listen, softly, to the whispers within. The strands had been forged from justice itself, after all, and none would question his judgement, then.

"The whispers of truth say, that in terms of outward appearance, you are both equally lovely," he would say, for they almost always were. And then, he would add, "I think that now, the only judgement of beauty that could decide between you would be the beauty of your hearts... which between you, from this day forth, treats the other with greater kindness and respect and less vanity."

(The second part had never been whispered to him, but he spoke those words regardless, for they always worked, and he could feel their truth within his own heart, forged from the very fairness of Themis given form.)

Those arguments were among the easier to dissolve, however, and sometimes when the squabbles made their way all the way up to the Olympian gods--

"I am the true meaning of war!" Athena would cry. "A display of honor, talent, and strategy, where mortal hearts give their lives and know they shall be remembered evermore!"

"War is blood and death," Ares might bark back. "The visceral feeling of your muscles, your sword, biting into your enemies' flesh! It is glory, and no place for a _woman_ like you."

\-- those sorts of arguments were always far more difficult to diffuse, involving careful consideration to all, usually resulting in a compromise that left neither party wholly satisfied. At times, they dragged on long enough that Libra would be forced to weigh the immediate and damaging effects over less pressing matters. Aphrodite's criticisms of her daughter-in-law Psyche, for example, abandoned for Poseidon's sudden rage at a seacaptain who claimed he could outwit even the god of the ocean, his threat to submerge an entire peninsula beneath the waves in the next minute.

(Libra still felt very badly about Atlantis, but Dionysus' attempt to loose a drunken, trigger-happy Eros in a gathering of kings was quite frankly more dangerous.)

The worst arguments, however, were always between Zeus, King of the Olympians, and Hera, his Queen. 

Never before had there been a pair so bitterly matched in power and temperament, and, Libra prayed, never would there be again. Zeus was as determined to have extramarital dalliances as certainly as Hera, goddess of the home, was determined to prevent it. And peace-loving Libra, as the whispers told him of another escalating argument, miserably excused himself from Hephaestus' workshop during a rare quiet moment.

"I see, your old man's wife troubles aren't as important as the King of the Gods getting chewed out again," Hephaestus grunted, took the opportunity to stretch out his aching back.

"You know I would stay if I could," Libra answered remorsefully. "Truthfully... there are few arguments as difficult to diffuse."

"I don't envy your domain," Hephaestus lifted his careful work and held it out to Libra, "Here, a reflective cloak. Hewn from gold, cut into scales to keep it light... Hera's taken to slinging curses, lately, and Zeus isn't exactly discriminatory about his thunderbolts, either."

"I couldn't possibly--"

"Consider it a congratulations on holding out the past hundred years," Hephaestus remarked. "Or an apology for creating you for this job to begin with. Whichever sets your mind more at ease with accepting it."

"Thank you for your congratulations, then," and Libra, when he dressed in the glittering links of thin, golden scales, offered a gentle smile. "May your divine blessing protect me."

And Libra descended Mount Olympus with all due haste, sought out the site of their altercation.

"'Tis but a blackbird," Zeus entreated, holding the terrified creature between his hands. "You don't get this angry when Artemis and her kin decide to go out and capture butterflies with their bare hands. Why should this be any different?"

"You, _my lord husband king of the gods_ ," Hera trilled, and Libra cringed. "You are not the sort who goes out on a whim to _catch blackbirds_. Either it is a gift for a woman you are deceiving me with, or it is a woman herself!"

"Most certainly not," Zeus huffed, and when he seemed to puff out like that, Libra could immediately tell it was a lie.

He rushed to intervene, "Your Highness Lady Hera, my Lord Zeus!"

"I'm sure our _lovely little mediator_ will be willing to vouch for me on this," Hera hissed, her hair curling in rage.

Libra internally winced-- she was the sort of woman who added on more endearments the more furious she became, and this had been the most complimentary way she had referred to him thus far.

"It _is_ important to hear out a complete explanation from both sides before passing judgement, however likely one may be over the other," Libra hurried to say. "That is what the whispers of justice decree."

"You and your _precious_ whispers!" Hera bit. "Of course I'll listen to what you have to say on their behalf... since none among the company of the gods have _ever_ heard them before."

A sigh, and, "Lord Zeus, kindly explain what the matter is."

"I went out to play with the blackbirds on a whim," he shrugged. "As king of the skies and the heavens above, they are in my domain. Is it not my right?"

"Surely _our heavenly king Lord Zeus_ would have managed more than one measly blackbird," Hera sneered venomously. "Even the littlest of Artemis' girls can capture more than that."

"Perhaps the rest were frightened away," Zeus barked. "By the shrill shrieks of a harpy!"

"There is surely no need to argue thus!" Libra interjected, and swept so that he stood between them. "A good relationship is founded on communication. Lady Hera, if you would please explain why you believe his, er, _blackbirding_ seems suspicious?"

"The king of the skies does not simply leave the house to catch blackbirds, whom he could too easily command to flock towards him," Hera sniffed, scorn writ across her face. "If I have seen this dance once, I have seen it a dozen times! He has seduced a woman-- perhaps a mortal or a lesser nymph-- and now, when I ask him to admit to his mistakes and _communicate_ , what does he do? He turns her into whichever animal first comes to mind, and seeks to hide her from me!"

"Do you doubt the king of the gods?" Zeus roared.

"With a track record like yours, what woman wouldn't?" Hera wrinkled her nose. "If that is no girl you hold in your hands, then give me that blackbird. I shall have it roasted and eaten, if it is so lucky a bird as to be caught by the almighty Zeus himself!"

"What, a simple bird such as this, when you could have the finest peacocks atop Mount Olympus?" Zeus feigned affront.

"Then it _is_ a girl!" Hera shrieked jealously, a curse gathering in her hands. "There is no other reason you would protect a lowly bird!"

Libra pleaded, "Lady Hera, you cannot expect a mortal woman to have been capable of--"

"Your _whispers_ know not what justice is for a _wife_!" Hera cast, and it was all Libra could do to attempt to deflect her curse.

But the spell, when it rebounded off Libra's cloak, still blasted Zeus' fingers, and from that pain he was forced to let the bird go free. The terrified creature, staggering from the residue of the spell, wobbled and did its best to fly away, eventually straightening its flight and hastening from that place. Silently, in his heart, Libra urged it-- be it woman or bird-- to fly far, far away. No mortal creature deserved to be caught up in a gods' argument like this.

"Well," Zeus huffed, his fingers stinging, "You're not the only one who can throw around bolts of energy!"

"I would like to see you try, _your royal highness_!" Hera's hands crackled with all the power dominion over home life afforded her. "I've been itching to see _exactly how strong_ my impotence curse can be!"

"Perhaps you can do this in a location where the mortals can't gawk?" conciliatory Libra knew there was little he could do anymore. "Maybe with a less harmful sport? The discus toss?? Why don't we see whose powers are further-reaching with a... friendly competition?"

"Hah!" Zeus laughed derisively. "This woman has _never_ played by the rules, in all her days of immortality. There'll be no stopping her without an open fight!"

"Funny you should scoff at _my_ treatment of the rules, when it's _you_ taking every chance to flippantly defy the rightful order of the family," Hera scoffed. "I level the playing field where it's needed. Nothing more. I can play by them just as surely as you can, _husband dear_."

"Then, I'll make the rules simple-- I'm certain _both of you_ are capable of following them," Libra exhaled, relieved it would not yet come to exchanging blows. "We'll see whose reach is further with their mortal worshipers. In the morning, ask them to complete a simple but unusual task, just to know they've heard your call... for example, laying out three white flowers on their dining table, or tying a string around their toe. Neither can command help from other gods... and neither can sabotage the other, whether by their own hands or their followers'. We tally at sundown. Do you agree?"

"I shall," Zeus scowled. "So simple a set of rules are _easy_ for a god such as myself. I will ask my followers to place a metal rod above the hearth... so that it knows where it stands."

"So shall I," answered Hera, head raised high. "With such rules, not even _Dionysus_ would need to cheat. I will ask my followers to place dark bird feathers at the foot of the hearth... so that they _know where they stand_."

"Excellent. Yes. Let the contest begin," Libra added, and allowed himself to collapse as the two of them rushed off. He was unreasonably exhausted, he knew, but he had at least prevented another catastrophe.

He spared another prayer for the bird which had escaped, and tiredly caught his breath against a nearby tree-- not even the mediator of the gods could truly handle them on their best of days.


	3. The Blackbird's Son (His Breath a Silent Song)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Illustration commissioned from [Kaze,](https://sheepskin.tumblr.com/) viewable on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SORDHAND/status/781212397600202752) and [Tumblr.](https://sheepskin.tumblr.com/post/151075960527/lonqulibra-commission-for-a-friends-greek-myth) Please like or reblog there if you wish to share it! :0

But Zeus had, indeed, seduced the beautiful Dulcinea, and transformed her into a blackbird once Hera discovered his tryst. The bird whose feathers were as dark as night flew, and flew further still, and landed only when she had flown away for the better part of a year, and could fly no more. As soon as her arched feet touched the soil, though, Hera's curse took effect, for she no longer flew in the sky, Zeus' domain. Hair as black as her feathers flowed over her shoulders, her midriff distended where a child of Zeus had grown these past months.

Pleading at the door of a wealthy home, her choked voice begged for help with the birth. The ladies of the home took her in, and called for a midwife-- and then, after hours of silence, another. One by one, they entered the room to see what had happened, but none emerged forth-- none, save for when the master of the house returned home, and drawn to the helpless cries of the child, sought out the room.

He discovered a squalling babe, screaming on the floor, and half a dozen dead women.

These were but the first to be killed by the unfortunate child, who had borne the brunt of Hera's curse. Terrified of the babe, the master of the house ordered that he be taken to the edge of town and killed-- but when a manservant picked the child up, and found that he was no different than any other infant, he questioned the master's orders, and could not bring himself to kill the babe with his own hands. Surely _this_ was not the abomination that had wrought such death?

But when he returned home with the child, and his wife laid a single finger upon him, her body went still, her expression stricken. And she, too, died that day, and the horrified manservant dumped the child in the woods, glad to be rid of him.

The news spread throughout town-- that if one should chance upon a child in the woods, it was an ill augur to lay hand upon him, no matter how pity may clench their hearts.

But though a single touch could kill a _human_ woman, those who were not of so treacherous a species did not suffer as a result of his curse. The boy was raised by beasts of the forest-- nursed upon the milk of wolves, a species of kindred omens, and taught to walk, to fight, by the blackbirds who could almost be his mother's kin. Their voices did not translate well, in the human tongue, but they called him Lon'qu in chirping voices, and so he came to call himself thus, even after he learned human speech.

His hands, he was reminded-- every time he ventured into a town to obtain clothes, or supplies-- they were by far better suited to killing than civilian's work, for every time he chanced by a woman, a single brush against his sleeve was enough to end their life. And, when he could, he would steer clear of them as widely as possible.

There was, once, a girl named Ke'ri, who had left out for him the scraps of her dinner. He could have almost had a friendship with her, in those late night conversations where he honed most of his human speech. Almost, for though he had warned her to never touch him... one evening, by sheer mistake, she'd tripped and fallen from her balcony, and Lon'qu did not have time to suppress his instinct to _catch_...

He had learned his lesson, then-- he knew in truth that he was a walking curse, and afterwards no longer dared to even speak to a woman.

The blackest bird of augury wandered the earth, then, and turned to the trade of killing, the very trade Lon'qu had known from birth. His blade upon the battlefield was truly fearsome, and though he was a mere mercenary, tales quickly spread about his prowess. _As like to Ares a mortal can be_ , some would say, _watch how swiftly he fights, as darting as an elusive bird_. And others: _surely he must have the blood of a god, for no mortal fights with such ferocity._

And Libra, too, heard these tales from his perch atop Mount Olympus-- and once heard, recalled the blackbird that had once flown from Zeus' hand, recalled the curse Hera had attempted to lay upon it. He cringed-- for the tensions between the pair were higher than ever, now, and what passed Libra's ears would undoubtedly soon pass Hera's.

"This man," she hissed to her husband. "The one they claim as the descendant of a god! The one they say fights like a bird!"

"Who?" Zeus asked, not quite as attuned to the mortals' rumor mill as Hera.

"If you claim him as your child, then there will be no one, man or god, who can help you," Hera's eyes lowered grimly, vicious sparks flexing betwixt her fingers. "But if he is not, then I bade you strike him down where he stands. Then, and only then, I will be satisfied."

And Zeus, who had frankly lost track of his numerous illegitimate children, particularly those born to mortal women: "I know not, without seeing this man's face, whether he is my child."

"Then he must die either way," Hera shrilled. "Libra! If you mete out justice for wives as well as husbands, you will slay the swordsman they call the augury. I shall never be satisfied, until justice has been claimed for myself, and for wives everywhere! I order you, Libra the amphora-born, if your whispers say that I have been wronged, kill him!"

And the wind through his hair rang true those words, and Libra knelt, and spoke: "Your command, as you say... is not unjust."

Thus Libra drew his blade, and hastened to earth-- and knew, too, it was not entirely just to punish the son for the sins of the father, but that the greater injustice would be allowing a sin to go altogether unpunished. Six days did he track the elusive swordsman, difficult to locate even for a god of his powers, and then doubted not that some god's blood, almost certainly Zeus', ran through this man's veins.

At last, he found him by chance, training alone in the forest where none would hear his struggle if he did not die quietly. The fervor of his sweat had driven him to remove all but his lightest tunic, the chest where his heart beat unprotected. Libra drew closer, afraid his quarry would startle and flee once more if he did not approach cautiously enough, and drew closer still, until at last the swordsman fell into his sight.

But Aphrodite on high had watched the peace-loving Libra these past days, jealous of his beauty which grew more radiant with each successful mediation, and still more envious that he was born from Hephaestus solely, without a drop of her own blood. He had rapidly become her greatest rival on Mount Olympus, for though he was not yet her equal in looks, his heart was by far the more benevolent, and growing only more graceful by the day.

Thus, out of spite, to ruin that heart forever, she sent her son Eros to strike him with the arrows of love, knowing he would be obligated to fulfill Hera's orders regardless.

And so, when Libra first laid eyes upon the blackbird's son, the love-god's arrow struck true, and there set forth a font of love. Where his heart before had held that which was just in highest regard, Eros' arrow introduced to him a feeling unlike any he had ever felt before, if indeed he had ever felt at all before that moment.

His eyes which had once viewed all creatures with impartiality began to pick out that which was best and most handsome in this stranger-- the curve of his cheek, the flex of his shoulder, the jut of his hip. There was a certain solemnity with which he trained, every motion deliberate, beading sweat sluicing down the divots of his musculature. The faint outlines of scars, pale, upon his tanned flesh. The swordsman's expression, faintly morose, at he at last lowered his blade, shut his eyes. Inhaled the air.

Libra's weapon fell to the ground in that moment, unable to bear the thought of slaying him with cold iron. The swordsman was owed that much of a chance, at least.

With soft, gently padding feet, he leapt to where the blackbird's son stood.

Lon'qu turned around, and was met with Libra's hands around his throat.

"If you were a woman, and mortal," he said, his voice soft, low. "You would be dead by now."

"What will you do, now that you know I am not?" Libra whispered, and his hair swirled around his ears, _it is just, it is just_.

"Nothing," Lon'qu replied. With a grim resignation, "I am capable of killing. Nothing more. Whatever death you have designed for me, I deserve worse."

Peace-loving Libra's heart broke to hear those words, "Any death? Even if I, with the powers of the divine, would damn you to burn away in Hephaestus' forge?"

"I have taken hundreds of lives," he replied, stoic. "Many of them... innocent ones. I am cursed so that every woman who touches me drops dead on the spot. For that alone, I would deserve to be damned-- _it is just_."

And though the whispers cried out in agreement, Libra's heart pleaded _no_ , and he released Lon'qu's throat in favor of taking his jaw, and with it a kiss.

"You were cursed," Libra insisted, "Through no fault of your own. It was merely a circumstance of your birth... I know it."

"But you've come to punish me, regardless," Lon'qu's hands lay idle atop his blade, unflinching. "Kill me, then, if that is what the gods deem just."

Libra trembled and wrapped his hands around Lon'qu's throat once more, squeezed. His knees gave way, and Libra pressed him to the floor, wishing all the while he would struggle instead of _this_. He watched him choke, and gasp for air, watched his hands shake and clench so as to avoid hindering Libra's progress, his eyes beginning to go hypoxic, blank. And, too, did Eros' arrow lodge itself deeper in Libra's heart the harder he squeezed, and it became painful, unbearably painful, to feel that life being silenced beneath his fingers.

He let go.

"You aren't going to try to fight me?" his voice shook, and the whispers called out that this was not quite yet justice. Libra, for once, ignored them.

Lon'qu heaved, gasped for air. He coughed, bloody, and shook his head. No.

"You would not seek me out, Libra the mediator," he breathed. "If the gods did not hate me for the abomination I am. Your reputation precedes you."

"The blame is not yours," and Libra caressed his face, terribly heartbroken. "It is only that _someone_ must be punished, that the wronged might be avenged. The blame is not yours, and I cannot kill you for it. I don't even know your name... it is not just."

"My name is Lon'qu," he said, and grabbed one of Libra's wrists, dragged his hand down so that it lay against his throat once more. "Kill me."

Libra watched how easily his fingers matched up to the handprints on that neck, how they began to flush and purple already. The sight turned his stomach, and instead he slipped his hand around so that it rested at the nape of his neck instead, pulled him down for a second heady kiss, pressed his entire body up to Lon'qu's front as if he intended to bind himself there.

Lon'qu's fingers released where they'd been clenched; his hands found purchase on Libra's waist, his thigh, instead.

"I won't kill you," Libra's temple rested against Lon'qu's, and his hair curled around both of them. "I can't."

And Lon'qu, too, could hear that those words rang true, and replied, "What would you do, instead?"

Libra's thigh, bare, tightened over the cusp of a hip. He answered, "I would have you, if you would let me."

Lon'qu kissed him, slow, soft-- "I would let you."

So Libra, with bare fingers, pulled away the swordsman's gloves, undid the ties that held up his tunic, his loincloth. Pressed Lon'qu's hands against his throat.

He did not squeeze, but touched, gentle, instead. Mapping out the curve of Libra's jaw, the divot of his throat, as if he wished to memorize them, and skin that had once been stardust felt smooth, soft beneath his fingers. His hands began to slide against Libra's shoulders, brushing away his hair, and then--

Libra caught a wrist. "It is not spoken of in mortal legends... but I am less than perfect, there. I wish for you to see the best in me."

"I'm not perfect, either," Lon'qu spoke, and gently, his fingers brushed against the very edge of Libra's only scar.

Libra gasped, "Can you tell, now, how much hatred my very existence sparked?"

"I see someone unjustly attacked," Lon'qu met his eyes. "Nothing more." 

"Then you are fairer than I," Libra whispered, and sealed it with a kiss.

He parted his legs over that splendid waist, pressed their stiffening groins together with no shortage of desire. Lon'qu made a low, throaty noise, pushing his hips upwards against Libra's weight.

"Strange of you to say," he groaned. "When you're the god of fairness... and I'm a mortal abomination."

Hot pity burned in Libra's chest, his heart made miserable by the falseness of that statement. He nipped Lon'qu's jaw reproachfully, "No matter how you believe those words, they are untrue. Conciliation is no fair sport... and you are neither mortal, nor an abomination."

"What do you mean?" a furrowed brow.

"You must know it by now," Libra's fingers caressed that confused expression. "You are half-immortal... the offspring of Zeus and a human woman. And this curse of yours... Hera cast it on your mother before you even came into this world. You are faultless in this; I am more certain of it now than I ever was before."

"What would you have of me, then?" Lon'qu sighed, and kissed the sweetness of those fingers.

"I do not know, yet," Libra leaned down, took Lon'qu's lips beneath his own. "I only know this for certain: I cannot kill you. It is unjust."

"What would you have of me... now?"

"This," Libra's fingers trailed over the bruising on his neck. "And this," his hands caressed a firm pectoral. Then, venturing even further down, into his lap: "And this, as well."

"I am yours," Lon'qu replied, and kissed the expanse of a pale throat.

"If you give yourself so readily," Libra gasped, and pulled Lon'qu's hands to his chest. "It is only fair that I give of myself as well. Touch me where you wish... I desire it."

"Here?" Lon'qu's fingers rolled against a flushed nipple.

Libra shuddered, his hips rutting hard atop Lon'qu's, "Yes."

"And here?" his other hand slipped to the milky-softness of Libra's thigh.

"Yes," Libra agreed, and slid his hips up until the bare flesh beneath their tunics touched.

Lon'qu sucked in a harsh breath, sliding his length against Libra's buttocks. "And here, as well?"

"Yes, please," Libra groaned, his entrance beginning to slick with desire for that intrusion.

Their urgency to become as one could wait no longer, and the amphora-born took that flesh within himself, his vessel at last filled. He bit his lip as he sank onto Lon'qu's erection, no great powers of the divine capable of preventing the pain of first penetration. Clenched at the shoulders beneath his hands, determined not to make a sound.

"Is this okay?" Lon'qu lifted a hand to Libra's cheek, gentle and hesitant.

"I'll be all right in a moment," Libra answered, turning his face to kiss that palm. It was less painful than feeling Lon'qu die beneath his hands, thought Libra, and completed their joining.

They held each other still for a moment, before Libra began to move-- experimental, cautious. The swordsman groaned and guided Libra with a broad hand around his thigh, encouraging that movement, his cock pressing tenderly into the heat of Libra's body.

Libra gasped, soft, and though he was surely a fool for thinking it, Lon'qu halted, "Have I hurt you?"

"No," Libra bore his hips down fervently, arching in delight. "Far from it. Nh... again, please."

And like that, he acquiesced, and together they came to a height of rhapsody Libra had not experienced in all his immortal life.  

They found their pleasure in this manner until night had long past fallen, when the body of a half-mortal man at last required rest. Peace-loving Libra gently adjusted their clothing, lingering too-long over Lon'qu's shoulders, his wrists. They lay sprawled together, warm, their most intimate desires momentarily slaked.

Libra touched the bruises around Lon'qu's throat, the ones he had placed with his own hands. He cringed.

"Did you change your mind?" Lon'qu mumbled. To clarify, "About killing me?"

"I have not," replied Libra tenderly. He sighed, "But the whispers... they, too, call justice for a woman wronged."

"Silence me, then, if it brings you quiet," Lon'qu breathed. "I will die happier than I lived."

Libra flinched, for the truth of that statement rang in his ears.

"I can't... though it is selfish of me, I can't," Libra touched his face, and hoped with all of his heart that the feeling would be understood. "I must go. Perhaps, if I entreat Hera... perhaps she will offer me a quest less cruel to my heart."

Lon'qu was silent, momentarily. Then, quietly, "Will you return?"

"I do not know if I can bear to stay away," Libra smiled, bittersweet. "However, I don't know where my quest would take me... or if our Queen would be swayed. If I asked you... would you wait for me?"

"As long as you wished it," his reply unhesitating. More quietly, "I... am not fond of staying in one place. But. I would, for you."

"Then journey to Riviera, where my worshipers make their home, and if you but say who told you to come, you will be taken care of," Libra prepared to alight for the skies. Then, suddenly, "But I entreat you, first, to take my cloak. Let it protect you in my place."

And when Libra unleashed the cloak from his shoulders in an array of gold, Lon'qu frowned, "I would have you no worse protected than I."

"Then, please, wear it... and protect my heart," Libra entreated, holding the scaled cloth to Lon'qu's form.

Lon'qu could not refuse, and wore it about his shoulders, instantly warmer. And so, when Libra ascended for Mount Olympus, Lon'qu drew the cloak about him in his loneliness, and began to pack up camp in order to make the journey for Riviera.

"So," said Eros on high, preparing to strike the mortal's heart with an arrow of hate. "The usual?"

"Nay. He bears already so potent a token of Libra's love... it may be best not to risk it," Aphrodite replied, reclining in her chaise as she watched. A sly smile spread across her face, "Besides... many a lover will grow wan waiting for a sweetheart's safe return. I have just the idea to diminish our _lovely_ mediator's beauty to a mere fraction of my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bit of NSFW worldbuilding](http://alphastarr.dreamwidth.org/1929.html) if you happen to be interested.


	4. Hera's Fury (A Woman Scorned)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This kind of worldbuilding](http://alphastarr.dreamwidth.org/2204.html) is totally worksafe.

The blackbird's son did as he'd been bade, travelling by foot and sail alike until he at last came to the city Riviera. He carefully and discreetly wove past the markets and halls-- foolishly, perhaps, bearing an armful of wildflowers as an offering for this holiest of gods. _A courtship gift_ , Lon'qu thought, and flushed.

"Halt!" cried the woman at the temple gates, bearing in her hands a holy stave.

Lon'qu flinched, and, unused to finding a _woman_  at the head of such a gate, carefully backed away lest he brush past her by mistake.

"I am Priestess Cordelia of Riviera," she proclaimed, bowing politely. "Upon these grounds, we must only honor our god with honesty in our words and hearts. Speak now of what sends you to our door, traveler, and we shall receive you."

"Not _what_ ," Lon'qu answered. "But _who_."

"Who sends you to our door, then, traveler?" Cordelia questioned, now visibly curious. 

"Libra the mediator, and no other," he replied shortly.

"Have you come to heed the call of priesthood?" Cordelia inquired, furrowing her brow.

"No. He spoke to me. I am here to wait until I hear of him again," Lon'qu explained gruffly, and drew closer to himself the golden cloak beneath his own woolen one. Its presence was a comfort.

"... I see," Cordelia's observant eyes caught the glistening scales, going wide with faint surprise. "Then you may be the one of our High Priestess' visions... thereby I entreat you to enter and request audience with her."

Lon'qu fidgeted uncomfortably, "I cannot."

"It will be no trouble for her to see one such as yourself," the priestess added.

"I cannot _enter_ ," he clarified, mortified at admitting it. "I would risk brushing past your robes. If... it would not trouble you to stand five paces to the side..."

It was the strangest request Cordelia had ever heard from a visitor, but indeed, the High Priestess had expected him-- and so, she turned to the side and strode five paces. He carefully tiptoed around the edge of her trailing skirts, and she shook her head.

Quietly, Lon'qu set his bouquet of offerings before the altar, and whispered to his love a prayer so tender that Libra on high wept upon hearing it, knowing he could not answer the pleas but for his oath.

"Ah... you have arrived," a soft, peaceful voice spoke, and High Priestess Emmeryn swept in from around a corner. "Do not fret, Son of the Blackbird... I have distributed orders among those that would make this temple their haven. They should all give you ample space, even the men."

"... my curse extends to women only," Lon'qu furrowed his brow, and stood.

"It would be unfair to prohibit one from being near you without prohibiting the other," Emmeryn answered. "My visions of conciliatory Libra bespoke so... it is unfortunate, but just. And so too will be the news I must tell you of the amphora-born's endeavors."

"If you would speak, then speak now," Lon'qu frowned, disliking the sound of that word, _unfortunate_.

"Hera has spoken that she would pass judgement upon you herself," she smiled, pitying. "But that you must undertake a quest to earn a chance at her mercy... and peace-loving Libra has been forbidden from aiding you in this quest at all, else he forfeit your chance at redemption. It is for this reason you speak now to a priestess in lieu of a god. Libra wishes I extend to you his apologies."

"He need not apologize. I am unworthy of his... efforts," Lon'qu bowed his head, humbled. "Give me my quest quickly. Whatever it may take to be redeemed... I will do it."

"It is no short venture," Emmeryn began, and removed from her sleeve a scroll. "This quest stands in twelve parts..."

"Then I will complete them," Lon'qu scowled. "Or die with honor."

"Then, take your repose here for the night that you may journey tomorrow," Emmeryn's eyes flickered heavenward. With a small smile, "He wishes I extend to you his affections, as well, and I can think of no manner better than to ensure you are fed and rested before your quest."

And so, that eve, the clergy of Riviera made a sacrifice of the most worthy of their sheep, and burned a choice offering for their god. Of the remnants, they ate well, and made libations to the other gods, each in turn: _may Ares give our hero strength_ , some would plead, _and may Athena aid him in wisdom_. But others would say such things as _may Zeus watch over his cursed son_ , and _may Hera spare our poor Libra's heart_. These prayers unsettled Lon'qu the most, and despite the custom, he found himself capable only of praying to Libra, whose golden hair had whispered against Lon'qu's face, whose immortal body Lon'qu had held within his arms, however brief.

"May we meet again," Lon'qu spoke, quiet, and spilled his wine to the altar. And on Mount Olympus above, it were as if Libra drank of the same wine that had been touched to Lon'qu's lips, and he wept for its sweetness.

"If only my oath permitted it," the god sighed, and gazed down upon his love with a heavy heart. "I would be glad to meet you now..."

But he had, indeed, given Hera his word-- this penance was for the son of Zeus, and the son of Zeus only, and he could interfere with the quest no more than to convey to his cleric its details. This she had spoken to him clearly, leaving no doubt that only such would sate her vengeance.

"A son of Zeus would have no fear of war," Hera had sniffed, recalling her long-ago grudge against Hercules. "It seems I will have to assign this man some true challenges... hah! Domestic challenges. Surely _my dearest husband_ would writhe with indignation at giving a son of his blood to the service of the hearth, a woman's domain!"

"But!" Libra had protested, knowing well the curse upon his love. "He is cursed so that all women who touch him shall die! Would you not remove the curse and spare their lives? They are innocent!"

"Perhaps, if I deem him worthy," Hera sneered, knowing this to be impossible for a child of Zeus. "But for now, he shall have to be _very, very careful_ to avoid touching any, won't he?"

Hera, with her heart set on these conditions, gladly bade Libra bear the ill tiding to his clerics, and there on high, his heart suffered as Lon'qu set forth upon a quest that could just as well be his undoing.

Perhaps, Libra thought, it would have been kinder to have killed him as intended. Perhaps it might have, but Libra so selfishly, selfishly loved this man-- and, for all that thinking, could not have given up his life for anything.

* * *

And so, when Lon'qu was sent to assist in the impossible task of a thousand baskets of laundry in one night, Libra bit his nails with each hour that passed. The three kidnapped maidens whose work it had been seemed fit to burst into despair at their help's utter incompetence at stain removal, but he had deft hands and a great knowledge of rivers, hanging each line of laundry deep within so the water would do most of the work. Too did Zephyrus, entreated by the prayers at Riviera, take pity on this plight, and obligingly dried the fabric as it came up. He was bitterly cold by the end of the evening, but ultimately successful-- though worry at perhaps hypothermia burdened Libra's heart.

When Lon'qu slew the white bear of Mycenae for the hearth-rug of a queen, careful to leave its white fur as unblemished as her castle of white stone, Libra's heart grew tense in its anxiety. The finicky queen's favored white decor would settle for nothing less, and only upon the most careful of killings could Lon'qu avoid marring its fur with blood. The deft swordsman, at such close angles, dug a quick incision into its heart that might have spelled his own death had the bear's jaws finished closing around him in that very moment. Never had Libra wished for more, in that moment, than to pick up his own blade and dash down to earth, to come to his love's rescue.

When he had been entreated to clean a vast castle from top to bottom, where dust would settle at the one end before he could finish cleaning the other; when he had been instructed to peel half a million bushels of potatoes; when Lon'qu's fingers grew bloodied and pricked raw from spinning vast, impossibly vast lengths of thread, enough to create a cloth that would circle the world-- o, how it hurt to watch his love labor like this for what seemed like years unending, and to take on those burdens alone.

Libra grew wan and thin as he watched these acts, and Aphrodite rejoiced for she was now undoubtedly fairer between them.

Even further-- his task to free the enslaved cooks of Andros by blade if not by merit, his journey to deliver blessed firewood to half a dozen far-flung royal hearths, sorting misplaced needles from piles of hay... by the time of those quests, it had become difficult to pull Libra away from his worried watch. The relations of the gods suffered, too, for these tasks, their lovelorn mediator pining to the detriment of of his domain.

"Libra is not himself as of late," spoke Hephaestus, narrowing his eyes at Aphrodite, whom he knew to be jealous of his son.

"Love claims even the fairest of hearts," she replied noncommittally, and slyly smiled as Libra abandoned his skincare regimen for another half-hour of worry. The gods could not get wrinkles, but it seemed perhaps Libra would be the first if his brow were to freeze in such a knit.

For all he wished to punish his wayward wife, Hephaestus held his tongue and merely hammered away at his forge with twice the ferocity. He knew exactly who would come halt them should the argument escalate, and hated to contribute to Libra's malaise.

Thus did the quests continue, as the swordsman ventured into the heart of the Amazons' territory, cautiously returning the belt that had been stolen from Hippolyte nearly age ago. The true challenge of this venture, indeed, had been in avoiding the warrior-women themselves-- for though Lon'qu could have stood against at least one or two in a fair fight, his quest did too forbid him from ever laying a hand on a woman, lest he slay them in error.

It was a week of staking out the Amazonian encampment, careful not to so much as sneeze in any of their directions, before at last the opportunity struck for him to sneak into their Queen's tent and leave behind that Ares-given belt, laid flat over her bed like a gift, and make his hasty escape without so much as exchanging a word.

And then, the heifers-- those sired by the bull of Crete on its rampage across Greece, marked by their magnificence and gold-colored coats, but too their horrible tempers. To wrest these beasts to the floor and do them no harm in the process was scarcely a feat suited for the warrior, whose ferocity was unmatched but whose strength rarely extended to _non-lethality_. Even though, by then, it had been near a dozen years, his pointed edge still had not honed completely dull-- and without death on his side, it was beyond a challenge. Still, ultimately, he had a tall bottle of imperishable milk by the end of the matter, and only three new scars.

At the end of the quest, at last, lay the greatest challenge of all: below Mount Etna slept the godslayer Typhon, buried by Zeus when his kingship had been threatened by the chaotic beast long, long ago. The gigantic monster bore a hundred heads, spitting flame and acid and ichor in turn-- Zeus himself had scarcely defeated it, in the end.

And now Hera desired a lick of its flame for her own hearth on Mount Olympus, and all of the gods agreed that it would be very unlikely that Lon'qu should emerge from this battle. Libra was inconsolable at the thought that he who had awakened the emotion in his heart would perish, and they would hear of each other no more-- and yet:

"If your love should die, he will die a hero," Artemis consoled him, recalling the time he had resolved a dispute between she and Aphrodite. "I have seen him save maidens from their kidnappers, setting them free upon the earth... and for this, I would petition he be raised to godhood."

"Men have been made gods for less," Ares scowled, and glared at Adonis who was little more than immortal eye-candy. "We could use another warrior up here."

"A _noble_ warrior, sound of heart and mind," Athena chided, and Libra smiled weakly in turn.

The half-mortal, however, sought to make up for his weaknesses in stealth-- peering down from the edge of the volcanic peak, with deft fingers he unleashed handful after handful of black feathers into the hellcreature's dwelling, until at last the great Typhon unleashed a horrible sneeze, all three substances nearly engulfing the man that stood above.

Libra stared blankly at the smoking column, even as it wafted up into the heavens.

Hephaestus laid a hand upon his child's shoulder. "I am sorry."

Still, the amphora-born said nothing.

He cleared his throat, and tried again, more loudly, "As Poseidon would say, there are plenty of other fish in the sea."

"... he's running," Libra answered, blinking incredulously.

"Maybe you had better take a rest," Hephaestus offered, knowing that there were scant few among even the gods who could survive such a toxic blow.

"Nay, I see it also!" cried Helios, though for certain he was meant to be driving his chariot instead of watching the spectacle unfold. "Do you not see that burst of flame running up Mount Olympus?"

And indeed, the gods marveled that he should be alive, still, and marveled more that he ascended the mountain with such speed. There could be no question of his heritage, now, for he was either the son of Zeus or a god taken mortal form in his own right.

And so, with all due haste, he burst into where the gods watched from Hera's sitting-room in her palace, and set down his fire in the grand hearth. Beneath the cloak of flame, Libra's golden-scaled vestment shone, and when at last the fires lay solidly where they belonged, Lon'qu coughed, and allowed himself to catch his breath.

"Would I permitted an audience?" he spoke, terse but not impolite. As if an afterthought, he set the bottle of Cretian cows' milk upon Hera's breakfast table like an altar offering.

The goddess, shocked, narrowed her eyes. Hera glanced out at the audience there assembled, and then back at the son of Zeus. She venomously decreed, "You may... if you apologize for being born, for it is the greatest insult to one of my stature. A king should not take his queen for a cuckold, and I have been _deeply_ wronged... even Libra knows it is just."

It was a step above her smiting him on the spot, thought Libra, and his heart pounded anxiously beneath his breast.

"You have been wronged... and for this insult, I have paid every day of my life," Lon'qu frowned, but knelt before her. "My curse killed the woman who bore me long ago... and every woman I've met or cared for ever since. A mere apology is scarcely worthy of this... occasion. I won't insult you further with something so everyday. Let my actions... speak for themselves."

"Does the mortal woman's son refuse to apologize to _me_?" Hera huffed.

"I wouldn't offer poor wine for libations," Lon'qu leveled. "I wouldn't mar this audience with common apology, either."

"Hermes," Hera remarked stiffly. "Do make a run into the archives of prayer for me. I wish to test the truth of this... statement."

Libra's heart thumped. _It is true, it is true_ , and he prayed that Hermes should find these records before Hera simply lost her patience.

(While the gods on Mount Olympus watched the drama with rapt attention, Poseidon, unchecked, cast a storm upon a city where the king had insulted him.)

"This quest's undertakings... are they sufficient?" Lon'qu queried, slow.

Hera took a sip of the imperishable milk offered to her. It was richer than even the sweetness of nectar. The fire, too, burned bright and warm in her palace hearth, and she thought musingly on the wrongs righted for hearth-workers across all the land. How very, very much a prideful son of Zeus must have suffered to have done so much work in the name of domesticity, and how much she had enjoyed watching Zeus squirm at the thought of his blood, at last, brought beneath the rule of the hearth.

"We shall see," she replied imperiously, and Hermes returned through her halls once more.

"Lady Hera, your visitor speaks the truth," the messenger declared. "Innumerable prayers, spoken to every god in the pantheon... almost every day he's been alive, sometimes more than once per day. More common than household morning prayer, with this one."

"Well... it is certainly rare for a child of Zeus to show this much humility," Hera glanced up from inspecting her nails. "Are you sure we have the right child? That is to say... do we know for certain he is a son of _Zeus_?"

"It seems more likely than any of the other gods," Athena rationalized. "And he is certainly _not_ full-mortal, for the gates of Olympus would have rejected him outright otherwise."

"Hmph," Hera pursed her lips and sat up straighter in her throne. "I still take insult to your being born... but those at fault on that matter have already paid the price. As for your life, _that_  was an unfortunate side effect of the original insult. But you have paid for this, too, and I will magnanimously grant you not only the removal of your curse, but your life among the immortals as well! Do not say that I have been less than fair."

"Better than fair," Lon'qu agreed, and sweating from his palms, glanced up. "You have my gratitude... whatever that may be worth to you."

Hera smirked, and graciously directed Hermes to her side once more: "Well, then, I suppose we'll have to inform _my dear husband_ that it is his turn to file the paperwork for another immortal. Do convey this message for me."

Dionysus, ever the gambler, elbowed the gods on either side of him, "It looks like I won the betting pool! That'll be fifty-three immortal drachmae for me, on the latest Zeus kid surviving the final trial!"


	5. The Blackbird Immortalized

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ecstatic that Thracia (Mediterranean location) and Thracia (FE4/5) share a name so I can make mini-references.

Though nearly the entire pantheon seemed congregated in Hera's sitting-room, Lon'qu looked for none of them, save the softness of gilt hair and the fairest of hearts. There he discovered that, while the second remained, the first had faded into a nigh-unrecognizable dullness, more like wheat than gold, and too did Libra seem far more gaunt than he ought, as if he had spent these last twelve years growing thin in the dungeons of the underworld.

His heart ached to look at the god, hot pity burning deep within his chest, And so, delicately, Lon'qu approached, and stood silently before the mediator of the gods.

"My prayer has been answered," he whispered. "You are before me once more."

"My love," Libra stepped closer, and took the swordsman's hands in his own. "I am sorry..."

"For what?" Lon'qu's brow furrowed, if but minutely.

Libra wondered the source of this treatment, wondered if his lover's ardor had cooled in the years they had been apart, and too his affections. His prayers, it seemed, had grown fewer and further in between, near the end of that journey. But instead of voicing all these concerns, he answered, "I am sorry that I could not have helped you more on your quest... I am sorry that you suffered so."

"Don't apologize, then," Lon'qu spoke brusquely. Then, softer, perhaps realizing his harshness, "I thank you, Libra, for saving me. What you've done... it's better than I deserve. You haven't wronged me."

With relief, the whispers sang of those words' truth, and Libra tenderly squeezed the hands he held in his own, "I fear it was selfish of me to ask such a task of you."

Lon'qu gripped those fair hands back. "Less selfish than I'd been to keep praying to you, knowing you couldn't answer."

Libra parted his lips to reply-- but then, the King of the Gods harrumphed into Hera's palace, bearing with him a great slab of marble, and a stylus with which to write upon it.

"You couldn't have spared a chariot for me to lug around this great thing with?" Zeus scowled.

"It's hardly _my_ fault you couldn't keep your own charioteers from rushing to watch the spectacle of this last event," Hera sniffed haughtily. "You missed a most excellent run. The Olympics could hardly hold a torch to this one."

"The King of the Gods must continue ruling, even when there are such spectacles to be had," Zeus straightened. "Unlike _some_ of us."

"Or philandering, as like as not," Hera remarked acridly. "Hardly as if you find it difficult to lift the immortal register. Though I suppose the 'Bastard Children of Zeus' chapter is one of the weightier tomes."

"You will control your tongue, lest I mistake my wife for a shrieking harlot!" Zeus huffed.

"I suppose I'll be more your type, then, won't I?" Hera crossed her arms obstinately. "Well, then, _o great and mighty King of the Gods_ , show us the extent of your all-powerful rule and immortalize your child in stone!"

Zeus glared at her before settling in and interrogating the god newly-made. "Name?"

"Mine?" Lon'qu released the hands he held. "I am called Lon'qu."

"Who was your mother?" Zeus questioned, scratching the name into marble as easily as a stylus over wax.

"Uh," Lon'qu furrowed his brow. "I don't know. She died. The blackbirds told me she was one of their kind."

"Mmmmm, yes, Dulcinea," Zeus licked his lip, momentarily lost in nostalgia. "I suppose you have enough of her features to pass for a son of hers."

Hera directed a curdling glare in his direction as he revealed the truth about this infidelity, "You've forgotten the last column."

"I was getting to it," Zeus glared venomously back and wrote down the mother's name. "Domain?"

"What?" Lon'qu looked utterly perplexed.

"Like how Hera rules her hearth, or how Zeus rules the sky," Libra explained, touching his shoulder gently. "Even _I_ watch over mediation between the gods, and their bonds."

Lon'qu was momentarily silent. Then, solemnly, looking the King of the Gods in the eyes, "I choose loyalty. Someone told me that was in short supply around here."

Zeus reddened in fury. "Why, you... I ought to smite...!"

"Whyever should you, _o husband dear_ ," Hera gleefully crowed, beginning to enjoy the thought of having a new immortal around. "We have long been without a god of loyalty among us... I am sure even _Libra's whispers_ will tell you it is true!"

"You put the boy up to this," Zeus snapped. "A condition for his remaining here, no doubt!"

"See how cruelly my husband accuses me!" Hera cried. Then, slyly, "When all of the gods before us have indeed witnessed that he accuses falsely."

Libra winced and called out, "Let's not involve the entire pantheon; I am sure you would both much rather communicate _properly_. Perhaps in private? Where no others can watch?"

"Yes, I would hate to ruin the upholstery... especially once I can contain my godly rage no longer!" Zeus howled, brandishing a lightning bolt.

"You will attack your queen when she is in the right?" Hera seemed to inflate with fury, and hovered from her chair with her own divine magics crackling between her fingers. "See now, my immortal brethren, what manner of god rules you!"

The other gods slowly began to filter out of the room, none of them eager in the least to get involved in yet another domestic spat. Not even warlike Ares wished to stick around and watch his parents do battle with each other.

Libra winced, knowing the dispute was his to settle.

He clasped Lon'qu's shoulder and prayed that his devotion would give him strength. "I entreat you, love, please go on ahead. I beg you to take no offense... but I'm afraid you may only worsen this argument if you remain nearby."

"If you're certain of it," Lon'qu answered, hesitant to leave him in a situation of such danger. Then, he swept the golden raiment from his shoulders, and tied it securely about Libra's. "I would return your cloak to you, here... it has served me well on my quest. But it would serve me better if it were protecting you from... that."

Lon'qu glanced towards the escalating argument.

"Thank you for your concern," Libra replied, and pulled the scaled cloak closer to himself. He felt as if he might stand a chance at calming the matter, now. "I shall find you when I am done."

Though reluctant to leave Libra alone in that fiasco, Lon'qu nodded his assent and withdrew from Hera's temple on high, knowing it could escalate into a catastrophe if he were present, especially after those last comments to Zeus.

He set forth, intent on familiarizing himself with the halls of Mount Olympus in his wait, when he came upon Hephaestus as he limped away from Hera's temple. Neither wishing to leave him to his own devices, nor liking the thought of wounding the blacksmith's pride, Lon'qu fell into a silent step beside him. Held at the ready, in case he were to trip.

"You've made a fine mess of things on Mount Olympus," Hephaestus scowled, but took the proffered arm, his leg injury bothering him too much to refuse the aid.

Quiet, for a moment, then, "You speak as if Mount Olympus doesn't make a mess of _itself_."

"Maybe every couple dozen years," he begrudgingly admitted. "A word of advice-- don't have a wedding. Every time there's a wedding, someone turns into a plant, someone dies, or someone gets insulted enough to start a war."

Lon'qu's expression froze, "You don't need to make your disapproval so apparent. I know my heart lies where it is unworthy."

"Ha... humbler than his father, indeed," Hephaestus snorted. "I grew used to giving away my masterpieces long ago, and you're worthier than most. I sense Typhon's flame burned away the last of the mortality in you... which makes you preferable to Adonis or Eris, among other suitors."

Slowly, not comprehending, "You said we should not marry."

"You're gods. Declare yourselves married in private all you wish," Hephaestus deadpanned. "But I'm not going to another wedding ceremony."

He realized, "You oppose the wedding. But not a marriage?"

"My son was... deeply unwell during your quest," Hephaestus frowned. "I forbid you to participate in such a dangerous ceremony. Consider it for his health, if not your own."

Lon'qu was momentarily silent. Then, "Was he hurt?"

"Worried. Even removing the arrows of infatuation from his back did nothing. Though I shouldn't have expected it to," the blacksmith twisted his mouth. "Aphrodite knows as well as I that Eros' arrows are of my own forgework. If she thinks I'm stupid enough to construct a god vulnerable to pieces of my own creation... ha!"

"Are the wounds okay now?" was his cautious reply, not truly understanding Hephaestus' meaning.

"There were no wounds to begin with," answered Hephaestus. "Only a foolish archer, and an even more foolish wife."

"Should I fight them?" Lon'qu moved as if to draw his blade.

"I'm not the one to ask if that is just or not," Hephaestus huffed. "At least finish helping me to my workshop first. Who made that sword of yours?"

"A blacksmith in Thracia. Of House Hezul," Lon'qu spoke immediately. "... my previous blade broke. When fighting the slavers of Andros."

"It seems to have been a blade of commendable quality... for a mortal," replied the craftsman. "But you are a _god_ now. And against a god, it is little better than a toothpick. I have had a vision of a blade for you... hah! Yes... leave me to my work. My workshop is this one, here."

It was impossible to miss the towering spires of smoke, and the half-dozen animated statues of gold that took Lon'qu's place in guiding the god of the forge. With a deft nod of understanding, there he left him, and set about wondering to himself which among these palatial homes might be Libra's.

* * *

And when the conciliator of the gods completed his task, and set about wandering the halls in search of his love, he found that the hearth of his own cottage burned merrily in his windows, the myriad of windchimes set alight in a comforting whisper. Peace-loving Libra's heart warmed, and the color began to come back into his face as he entered his own home-- neither a palace nor a great temple, but a paradise to him nonetheless.

"You found my home," Libra smiled, something like liveliness breathed back into him.

"Your home found me," Lon'qu replied, and held out to him a steaming bowl of nectar, spiced.

"Then I am glad it did," Libra's eyes crinkled at the corners and he accepted the cup. He drank headily of that nectar, and felt his energy replenish itself. Then, lifted the cup to Lon'qu's lips. "Will you not drink of immortality as well?"

"If you are the one offering it," said Lon'qu, "I shall."

He drank from Libra's gentle hands, and kissed the fingertips that held that bowl.

"I have missed you," Libra whispered, and took his peace there in Lon'qu's arms.

"Can I stay the night?" Lon'qu's fingers tenderly brushed Libra's wrists.

"You may stay the night, and every night after until you tire of me," Libra answered.

Hesitantly, "You would have me for eternity?"

"Yes," Libra sealed that vow with a kiss, and there, in none but their own eyes, they were wed.

The legends would someday speak of their love, conciliatory Libra and his husband, the blackbird-born. They would tell of how the two brought an era of balance to Mount Olympus, how the relations of the gods evermore improved afterwards. They would speak of how radiant the gods' mediator would glow, and how Lon'qu would stand ever by his side, shadowlike, bearing a blade forged by Hephaestus should anything go amiss. They would even, someday, speak forth the scion of legend that would become their son, borne to them of a mortal woman and their own divine power.

But then, only then-- that first night they wed, they pressed each other down upon the sheets and tangled, slowly, their bodies into joining. The core of immortality shook, and began to realign itself so that fickle hearts stayed truer than before, that all gods learned what it could be to _devote_.

It was said that high above, on Mount Olympus where the gods made their home, the most golden of hearts learned what fidelity could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And Aphrodite, ever jealous, attempted to seduce her stepson's husband, meeting with her first failure in several thousand years. But that is a story for another day.)


End file.
